Marquette University e-Publications@Marquette English Faculty Research and Publications English, Department of 9-1-2009 Lively Rigor: The 2009 Lion and the Unicorn Award for Excellence in North American Poetry Michael Heyman Berklee College of Music Angela Sorby Marquette University, [email protected] Joseph T. Thomas Jr. San Diego State University Published version. The Lion and the Unicorn, Vol. 33, No. 3 (September 2009): 376-396. DOI. © 2009 The oJ hns Hopkins University Press. Used with permission. 376 Michael Heyman, Angela Sorby, and Joseph T. Thomas, Jr. Lively Rigor: The 2009 Lion and the Unicorn Award for Excellence in North American Poetry Michael Heyman, Angela Sorby, and Joseph T. Thomas, Jr. Winner: JonArno Lawson. A Voweller’s Bestiary, from Aardvark to Guineafowl (and H). Erin, Ontario: Porcupine’s Quill, 2008. Honor Books: Helen Frost. Diamond Willow. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008. William New, The Year I Was Grounded. Vancouver: Tradewind Books, 2008. Serve as a judge on a poetry award like this for many years, and you will start to notice patterns. Most books we receive fall into several neatly- bound categories. We see books emerging from the light verse tradition of Robert Louis Stevenson: sweet, well-crafted poems, generally concern- ing nature and children frolicking therein; we see collections of metrical nonsense, obviously inspired by Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll, or, more recently, John Ciardi and his former student and later collaborator Edward Gorey; and we watch our collections of the so-called “verse novel” grow and grow. Also, much more common these days—perhaps as a result of Marilyn Nelson’s success—we find a goodly number of collections emerging from what Charles Bernstein calls “official verse culture” (246), collections composed of conventional voice lyrics that would be as at home in Poetry as they would in an anthology of children’s verse. These are MFA-school, well-wrought urns of greater and lesser quality, some suggesting what Donald Hall memorably called “the McPoem” (“the The Lion and the Unicorn 33 (2009) 376–396 © 2009 by The Johns Hopkins University Press Lively Rigor 377 product of the workshops of Hamburger University” [7, 9]), while others display a mastery of conventional poetic technique and trope that puts many mainstream adult poets to shame. Another common group of submissions emerges from the nursery and folk rhyme traditions. These books often recast old chestnuts in slightly modified form, such as Anna Grossnickle Hines’s counting book 1, 2, Buckle My Shoe, or, similarly, There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Shell! by Lucille Colandro, which knocks off without improving upon the folk-rhyme original. Neither is badly written; they’re just unnecessary. Judge Angela Sorby speaks for the rest of the judges when she says, save a tree: embrace the oral tradition! Yes, we always welcome another skill- fully illustrated collection of nursery rhymes, but what we still await is a book that riffs on playground poetry to good effect, books by adult poets as daring as their child counterparts (and a publisher courageous enough to print profanity in a humorous context). Children are all too willing to shove a piece of glass right up Miss Susie’s “ask me no more questions,” but adults? We’re either too prim, too proper, or too frightened to touch the language any playground poet worth her salt wields like a master (or like a poet?). In the latter half of the nineteenth century, Christina Ros- setti took the nursery rhyme tradition—largely oral—and reimagined it, refigured it to work in a literary milieu. We ask: where is this century’s Rossetti, the intrepid poet who will rework the oral traditions of contem- porary playground poetry into literary poetry for children? As of yet, she is nowhere to be found.1 Likewise, the horizon is dishearteningly cloudy when it comes to col- lections inspired by the insights of the historical avant-garde. Of course, we do have the ubiquitous “visual poem”—generally in calligram form. In fact, the last forty or so years have seen more visual poetry for children than you can shake a mouse’s tale at. Visual poetry (or “vispo” as current practitioners tend to call it) is an approach responsible for some of the most face-slappingly obvious children’s poetry imaginable (vispoo, per- haps?). Last year we called for a moratorium on mirror poems featuring backwards text—and this year, thank Apollinaire’s ghost, not a single one made its way to our mail-boxes. But visual poetry aside, there’s not much out there exploring the trails blazed by proponents of literary Cubism, Dada, Surrealism, Fluxus, or Lettrism, movements well-suited to the world of children’s literature (if you need evidence, check out Gertrude Stein’s unforgivably neglected children’s book To Do: A Book of Alphabets and Birthdays, or perhaps Kurt Schwitter’s Lucky Hans, newly republished in Lucky Hans and Other Merz Fairy Tales, edited by Jack Zipes’s and out this year from Princeton UP). 378 Michael Heyman, Angela Sorby, and Joseph T. Thomas, Jr. We also wonder at the absence of poetry influenced (or written) by contemporary avant-gardists2 (and yes, we’re aware that some have ar- gued—like Ron Silliman—that “avant-garde” is a term ill-suited to today’s experimental poets: we’ll leave the issue of nomenclature to others). For instance, sound poetry for children is all but silent (Paul Fleischman is a nearly lone voice; his award-winning Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices— now two decades old!—is a master-class unattended by his contemporaries). Other poets have nodded toward experimental traditions: Robin Hirsch’s uncommon FEG: Stupid Ridiculous Poems for Intelligent Children refer- ences New York School poet Frank O’Hara alongside “18th-century poet and lunatic” Christopher Smart (no mean experimentalist), Gertrude Stein, and even Oulipian Georges Perec (by way of turning his child readers on to both Perec’s “5,000 letter palindrome” and his lipogrammatic novel La Disparition, “an entire novel [composed] without using the letter e”) (10, 20, 22–23). But Hirsch’s inclusive frame of reference is a rarity indeed. The “constraint-based” methods of Georges Perec and his Oulipian amis are not commonplace in the world of children’s poetry. Sure, abecedarian verse—a constraint so amenable to children’s poetry that it was old hat even in The New England Primer—remains as widespread as grass. Wynton Marsalis’s 2006 Unicorn award-winner Jazz A•B•Z, for instance, contains some of the most exciting abecedarian poetry we’ve seen in years (Marsalis’s “abstract” poem for free jazz pioneer Ornette Coleman is a marvel). Other constraints pioneered by the Oulipians are less common, even when they ought not to be. In fact, this polemic on the paucity of children’s poets conversant in the more radical twentieth and twenty-first century poetic traditions serves as an introduction to a collection proving that the most rigorous experimental constraints can produce poetry within the hearing of children: JonArno Lawson’s A Voweller’s Bestiary, From Aardvark to Guineafowl (And H), this year’s winner of the Lion and the Unicorn Award for Excellence in North American Poetry. Lawson illustrates the book himself, his scratchy, amateurish doodles recalling Edward Lear’s purposefully crude drawings. They exist in stark contrast to the lively rigor of the poems. “Lively rigor” may sound oxymoronic, but it’s an apt phrase, as the poems fairly crackle with energy, even as they never depart from the onerous lipogrammatic constraint summoned in each poem’s title. A lipogram is a work that systematically excludes words containing a certain set of letters. In A Voweller’s Bestiary, each lipogram is determined by the title, so the poem “Opossum” excludes any word containing vowels other than “o” and “u.” As an added difficulty, Lawson burdens himself with the requirement that every word he employs contains all of the vowels in the title. Thus, each word in the poem “Fireflies, Spiders, Crickets,” for Lively Rigor 379 example, must contain both an “i” and an “e,” but no other vowels, oc- casioning such lovely lines as “Pines line rivers, / fireflies flicker, / river replenishes evening whispers” (28). Choosing Lawson as this year’s winner wasn’t easy—especially consid- ering he won the award in 2007 for his Black Stars in a White Night Sky, a more conventional but no less remarkable collection of light verse and nonsense. Yet the uncommon success of Lawson’s daunting experiments sets his book apart from the rest of this year’s offerings. A Voweller’s Bes- tiary is not just a fine book of poetry; it is also a benchmark, a signpost gesturing toward the future of the genre. Indeed, Lawson’s A Voweller’s Bestiary is not just this year’s best book of children’s poetry; it is one of the year’s best books of poetry, period. The competition was fierce. We faced an embarrassment of riches that prompted Angela to ask whether North America’s failing economy was working to separate the wheat from the chaff, children’s poetry-wise. This year, there were no lurching rhymes by Jamie Lee Curtis, no natural-history lessons tortured into iambic pentameter, and not a single heavy-handed ode to the Montgomery bus boycott. One marked trend was the continued evolution of the verse-novel, and both of our honor books—Helen Frost’s Diamond Willow and William New’s The Year I Was Grounded—are outstanding examples of this subgenre. Indeed, we received many fine verse-novels that underline both the pleasures and the perils of narrative verse.